Soon They Shall See
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: They shall be free. [Sylvanas, on her way out of the Ghostlands][BfA era, post-Reckoning and Most Loyal; Loyalist compliant]


**A/N:**

My motivation tanked in the past couple days, and I wanted to work on a short piece that would help me feel a little more inspired and keep my head above the post-job cloud (for every day that I am there without a workable laptop to crack open and write on my break, I wither a little inside, woe betide me).

There's really not much more I can add to this, other than Sylvanas knows a lot more than she's letting on. While I've yet to get through the rest of the War Campaign on my night elf demon hunter and (still have yet to choose among my many Horde alts) a Saurfang loyalist, IMO if you want the biggest bang for your buck out of this particular questline - regardless of divisive opinion - it would be best to be a Sylvanas Loyalist. Maybe the Gift of N'Zoth on top of it, too, as you get whispers from Loyalist-only quests, but it remains to be seen if having that is still worth keeping all the way through BfA.

(This short was inspired by the Normal Horoscopes prompt Aquarius, through the Dimming Signs, on Tumblr: "What a wondrous legacy to leave behind. A desire, a compulsion to create, to twist and shape and work the ugly ugly world into more beautiful things. Things that can defend themselves."

(It kind of loosely fits? At least in the beginning, so I'm going to keep the prompt in regardless.)

* * *

After all these years, they still endure—determined, aimless, everlasting, with no love or hate, no need for hunger or sleep or libido to sustain them, no fear of the future to be concerned with or joy to be found and be disappointed when it ultimately fades away into oblivion, no hope to be crushed nor trust to be squandered.

They are perfect. Beautiful, wonderful creatures untarnished.

They would make such perfect soldiers, the ghouls and the wraiths and the knights in their rotten, plated armor. They would know only one thing, as they are being shielded by the stinking, hulking masses the abominations haul around with, and that would be the command to fight. Fight with all their worth, fight and push as much as they can as fast as they can before the enemy falls before their blade and are trampled underneath as they reach the hands that hold the spear, rip it from that warm grasp and overwhelm the person at the center of it all with the force of an avalanche.

Sylvanas watches them roam up the Dead Scar. This high up among the hills of the Thalassian Range, the undead aren't small enough to be considered ants in her eyes. Pigeons would be a better term, for even when there isn't any food to be had they are apt to settle upon the ground and be content where they lay, uncaring of the people that walk right by them.

(She could corral them now, if she wanted to. Deatholme hasn't been touched in a long, long time, and it's understandable that Lor'themar wouldn't want to waste manpower on continually purging its numbers so the stragglers won't survive the journey north, toward Tranquilien and the Sanctum of the Moon. But Arthas's touch is eternal; not even the Light reigns supreme in this dark, dreary land. Where one ghoul is cut down, several more take its place, stitched together from the bones and pieces of the fallen, and their footsteps overturn the cracked soil once more in their unrelenting march to the unknown.

She could take them all, every ghoul and abomination and knight and wraith and withered elf out of his goddamn mind for mana and blood. Make into one big ball of writhing, bewildered rage and set them north, north, to Silvermoon, to the Court of the Sun, to Lor'themar and Halduron and Rommath and Liadrin and drown the Light in Death and Shadow. Bring them into the fold and show them the folly of their ways and rebuild this broken empire of Sun and Arcane into a kingdom of bone and rot and darkness that which not even Elune could pierce it.

A parting gift from an old friend and former Warchief: for all the times he had ever doubted her, sided against her out of spite, and threatened to turn his blade on her for putting the bodies of their fallen to better use when their darkest hour was at hand.)

What a waste that would be. There are more important things to be concerned with than acting out personal fantasies. N'Zoth is free and his agents on the prowl to convert and corrupt, while—surprise, surprise—the Alliance and the Horde set aside their grievances and once again rally what remains of their forces to engage in the true battle for Azeroth and emerge victorious.

__But they will die eventually,__ she muses. __They do not yet realize just what it is they are about to get themselves into.__

Sylvanas turns away and continues walking, at a pace one would call leisurely. No hurry, after all; she knows her loyal followers will be waiting for her when she arrives, and will still keep waiting—patiently, diligently, quietly—even as she keeps moving, never out of mind but always out of sight.

__They will know, in due time. Their faith shall be rewarded.__

She tilts her head back, toward the smattering of stars and the shadow of the Dark Titan's sword hanging above her. "When once they were blind, now they shall see ~ " Sylvanas mutters softly, voice inflected with a singsong lilt. "All eyes shall be opened, soon they will be free.

"Oh, they shall be free~"


End file.
